


Five Times Gilfoyle Isn't An Asshole (And One Time He Is)

by dancinguniverse



Category: Silicon Valley (TV)
Genre: Five Times, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-05
Updated: 2018-11-05
Packaged: 2019-08-19 03:08:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,646
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16526168
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dancinguniverse/pseuds/dancinguniverse
Summary: What it says on the tin.





	Five Times Gilfoyle Isn't An Asshole (And One Time He Is)

**Author's Note:**

> Mentions but no actual occurrence of date rape.

1.

Gilfoyle walks into the house and pulls his bag over his head, crossing the room to his workstation. He pulls a paper bag out, only slightly crumpled, and sets it on the table next to Dinesh's laptop as he passes without pausing. 

Dinesh yanks out his earbuds, turning suspiciously. "What is it?" 

"A bomb," Gilfoyle says flatly, and goes about turning on his computer and moving enough of the mess on his desk away from his keyboard so he can work. 

Dinesh peeks in the bag, and then pulls out a square package wrapped in waxed paper, along with a smaller one that is clearly a pickle. "Is this from Roger's?" he asks, baffled. He unfolds the larger item, which is now obviously a sandwich. 

"I was in the neighborhood," Gilfoyle says, back turned. 

"This is my favorite," Dinesh says, lifting the bread and staring at the inside. He looks less happy and more confused. "This is the best sandwich in California." 

"Strongly disagree," Gilfoyle says. He puts in his headphones, ignoring Dinesh's continued questions. ("Did you poison this? Are you dying? Am I dying?")

Finally, after he's eaten the sandwich and talked to the back of Gilfoyle's head for fifteen minutes, Dinesh throws the balled up waxed paper at his head, which finally causes Gilfoyle to turn and glare at him. 

"Thank you," Dinesh says. 

Gilfoyle snorts and turns back to his computer. 

 

2. 

Gilfoyle is moving shelving from the van into the garage. The pieces are just long metal wiring, more awkward than heavy, each shelf a good five feet long. Gilfoyle tucks two under his arm and turns slowly, feeling the angular momentum of his turn pushing him around — and smack into Dinesh, who'd been bending over to pick up Satan knew what. 

Dinesh lets out a pained cry, dropping to the concrete, and Gilfoyle drops the shelving hurriedly, feeling the impact still reverberating through the metal and into his palms. He bends over Dinesh, reaching for his head. "Shit, sorry," he says automatically, pushing Dinesh's fingers aside to probe at his skull himself. 

"You okay?" he asks, even as Dinesh pushes himself up to sitting, smacking away Gilfoyle's hands. 

"You hit me!" he wails, and Gilfoyle looks at the relatively small amount of blood on his fingers and thinks Dinesh will probably live. 

He sits back on his heels, relaxing a little. "You got in my way," he points out, since the driveway had been clear the moment before he'd turned around. 

"Fuck you," Dinesh mutters, but his eyes are tracking and he seems like his usual self. He furrows his brow suddenly, staring at Gilfoyle and still rubbing his head. "Did you just apologize to me?"

"No," Gilfoyle lies immediately. He stands up, picking up his shelving again as he does. 

"You did too! You Canadian motherfucker!" Dinesh hounds him the entire time Gilfoyle assembles the shelves, not once bothering to help. 

 

3.

It's four am, and they've been coding for sixteen hours straight. Almost straight. The empty pizza boxes and Red Bull cans are a testament to their short breaks, but only so long as it took to answer the door and find a place to balance the pizza box. Aside from a trip to the bathroom four hours ago, Gilfoyle hasn't left his chair. 

His eyes are tight, his back hurts, and he's hungry again. Gilfoyle moves his last story to the complete column and checks over his shoulder. Richard is working in his room. Dinesh is staring at his screen with a blank expression, hands moving automatically across his keyboard. Gilfoyle looks at the remaining few stickies and then peels them off, letting them flutter one by one to the floor. 

When he looks up, Dinesh is looking back at him with an expression that Gilfoyle only usually sees on war-torn refugees in news clips. "He'll notice they're there." 

Gilfoyle kicks them further under the white board. "Not for a few hours." 

Dinesh hesitates, staring at the sticky note affixed to his own monitor. Gilfoyle reaches over, takes it, and throws it on the floor with the others. "Sweet dreams," he says, and points down the hall. He stands there until Dinesh rises and starts moving toward the bedrooms. 

 

4. 

Dinesh is drunk, and telling anyone who'll listen how Pied Piper is probably the best thing he'll ever accomplish in his whole life. He's gone from proud to sad to profound over the course of three or four vodka-cranberries — Gilfoyle lost track for a few minutes there, but he knows it's not more than that. 

Dinesh is less interesting when he's drunk, but he does spout the occasional gem of personal history or insight, so Gilfoyle doesn't like to stray too far. Also, Gilfoyle doesn't know how to encrypt his co-workers, so he figures keeping tabs on drunk Dinesh is the next best thing. 

The last time he'd looked over, Dinesh had been expounding on his coding accomplishments to a girl who seemed to be utterly absorbed in her phone. It was possible she wasn't aware Dinesh was even speaking to her. 

This time, it takes him a few minutes before he catches sight of the balcony, Dinesh with a fresh drink in hand, talking animatedly with another man who seems interested in Dinesh, which is a red flag — drunk Dinesh is even more painful company than sober Dinesh. The balcony is darker than the rest of the party, less crowded, and Gilfoyle wonders what they're doing out there anyway. Then the stranger turns, and Gilfoyle recognizes him as the owner of a fitness app, and his mouth tightens. 

He strides out the door and grabs Dinesh's arm none too gently. "We're leaving," he says, dragging Dinesh after him and not sparing a glance for the other man. 

"What are you doing?" Dinesh asks, but they're already through the doors, Gilfoyle propelling him forward. "We were talking." 

"Shut up," Gilfoyle says, walking him through the party and down the stairs, hand still gripped around his arm. The party was boring anyway. "That was Craig Becker."

"I know," Dinesh says. "I'm not an idiot. He's a big deal." 

"He also has a reputation." 

"For what?" Dinesh's eyes are wide, staring at Gilfoyle's face, and he trips over his own feet and Gilfoyle has to haul him back upright. 

"For leaving parties with guys who can't say no." 

"I can say no," Dinesh protests, as if the very idea is preposterous. "I was just going to go look at his Tesla."

"Do you also climb into unmarked vans whenever someone asks?" 

They argue all the way home, and by the time they pull into the driveway, it's somehow morphed into Dinesh crying because Gilfoyle thinks A Link to the Past is better than Ocarina of Time. In the morning, that's the part that Dinesh remembers enough to argue about, and Gilfoyle goes along with it. 

 

5. 

"I'm at the hospital," Dinesh says, sounding exhausted and small, and Gilfoyle is already moving, keys in his hand. 

When he gets there, they show him to the makeshift room where Dinesh is waiting, staring at a white curtain and watching feet pace back and forth in the emergency room outside. "Hey." 

"What the fuck?" Gilfoyle asks, taking in Dinesh's arm in a sling, the mess that is his left eye. 

"There was a biker," Dinesh says. "So I stopped. The other car didn't. The biker's fine. The lady who hit me was really upset about it all. She seemed nice."

"Shit," Gilfoyle says, dropping his messenger bag and walking closer. "You okay?" 

"I think my arm is broken. The doctors think my arm is broken too. They took some x-rays. We're waiting." 

He's remarkably blasé about the ordeal, and Gilfoyle looks at Dinesh more closely. "Are you high?"

"No," Dinesh says, indignant. "They just gave me a little something for the pain." 

"Uh huh." 

Gilfoyle leans over Dinesh, peering at the glue sealing his eyebrow closed, the dark line of blood outlining it. He has a spot on his cheek they missed when they cleaned him off. The upper part of his arm, the part that isn't in a sling, is already darkening with a nasty bruise. 

"When's the doctor coming back?" 

"I don't know." He shakes his head, as if clearing it. "Sorry. You don't have to wait. It might be a while." 

Gilfoyle drags over the hard plastic chair waiting in the corner and pulls up Pandemic on his phone. He ends up reading most of the game to Dinesh, who really doesn't pull his weight, but it passes the time until the doctors finish and let them go home. 

 

+1. 

"Fuck you," Dinesh gasps when Gilfoyle pulls off again. He fumbles a hand down to touch himself, clumsy with want. 

"No," Gilfoyle says, grabbing Dinesh's wrist and dragging it back above his head to match his other hand. "Not yet." 

"I hate you," Dinesh whines, writhing on the bed. "I hate you so much." 

Gilfoyle grins, wicked, and bites at the inside of Dinesh's thigh, making him whimper and jerk. He rubs his beard against the soft skin for good measure. "I know." 

"Fuck," Dinesh moans again, when Gilfoyle shifts up and licks a wet stripe into his neck. He follows it up with the rest of his mouth, his hand picking up where he'd left off down below. "I'm gonna — oh, _fuck_ ," he says, the word strangled, as Gilfoyle closes his hand hard around the base of Dinesh's cock. 

"Not yet," Gilfoyle reminds him. 

Dinesh is nearly mindless with it, gripping the pillow hard enough that Gilfoyle thinks he might rip it. 

"You're the worst person in the world," he says with feeling, once he can speak again. Gilfoyle presses a lazy kiss onto his shoulder, wondering how much longer he can stretch this out. 

"Working on it." 


End file.
